He spoke with such sincerity that Robledo felt sure Elena must have inspired in him this ridiculous resolution. Undoubtedly she was the person “of high station” who had advised poor Pirovani! Looking pityingly at him, he yet abruptly and emphatically refused to act as second.
Convinced finally that nothing was to be gained by further argument, Pirovani went away and betook himself to Moreno’s.
The next day, early in the morning, don Carlos Rojas, standing in the doorway of his ranch house, saw a rider approaching. The horseman was wearing “city clothes,” and his mount made the rancher smile. It was Moreno.
“Where are you going on that graveyard nag, friend ink-spiller? Stop a while and have a mate with me, eh amigo?”
They both went into the room used as a parlor and office, and while a small servant prepared the mate, Moreno caught a glimpse through a doorway of the rancher’s daughter sitting in a wicker chair; she looked worried and unhappy, and in her feminine dress seemed to have lost the joyous, rebellious audacity which she always seemed to possess when she wore boy’s clothes.
Moreno bowed to her from the room where he sat, and she acknowledged his salutation with a sad little smile.
“There, you see! She’s not herself at all, not the same girl any more. Anyone would think she was sick. That’s the way it is with young people!”
Celinda shook her head. Sick? Oh no, that wasn’t it.... Then she left the room so that her father and his guest might speak more freely together.
When they had sipped their first cup of mate, Rojas offered Moreno a cigar, “so that he would have something to puff at”; then lighting his own, he prepared to listen.
“What brings you to these parts, old boy?... You’re not much for riding, and when you come as far as this, it must be for some reason.”